


Fun and Games

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Hunger Games - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Hunger Games AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-23 23:39:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16169141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: Jaime and Brienne reminisce on their time in the arena.





	1. Merciful Mother

_"It's all very tidy. Numbers wise. Seven Gods, seven boys and seven girls, we had seven years of rebellion...do you think they did that on purpose? The Rebels I mean?"_

_"I don't doubt it,"_

_"Thought so. And seven districts to take part in the Games!"_

_"Only because the Crownlands and King's Landing don't take part,"_

_"Thus very graciously keeping up the seven motif. And of course they contribute through providing vital training and breath taking arenas for the tributes to compete in, so that every game succeeds in bringing more thrills and chills than the last,"_

_"For which we are very grateful,"_

_"Well if his Highness insists on mandatory showings, he might as well make them entertaining,"_

_"Seven bless our noble rulers, no one can fault her the production values they put in, nor his showmanship,"_

_"I was certainly very grateful. If I was going to die, it was going to be a masterpiece!"_

#

Jaime was expecting this. Ever since the Games were announced. So did Cersei and even little Tyrion, who wasn't old enough to be reaped and yet always so clever. Sharper than any knife in the Cornucopia, he had turned to Jaime with tears prickling his eyes. Jaime could still remember that day, the dust making his eyes water as King Petyr took to the stage. They were sat in the Drawing Room of their old mansion, in their final days spent in the ancestral home before they had been forced out and sent to the care home.

Those years spent fighting for each last scrap of food, beating off everyone who would torment his little brother and accepting that the name that had once been a shield was now a target had been the ultimate training. And he was ready. When they called out his name, he was so ready.

Thankfully he was off stage and the cameras were gone before he vomited all over his escort's shoes. And very expensive shoes they were too, snake skin and studded with opals. If any sponsors had see him spewing his guts over such luxurious items, what little support his name had not yet driven away would have vanished as promptly as his escort's sugary smile.

"Wretched boy," Falyse Stokeworth sniffed.

Jaime's fellow tribute, Melara Heatherspoon, smiled sympathetically. Jaime smiled back, loving her for simply not being Cersei. Cersei was safe, safe from the Reaping, safe from the Games. Cersei herself, even as she embraced Jaime goodbye, seemed to relish in the triumph of it. A certain glittering in her green eyes, a straightening of her back. Tyrion's form held no such pride, he was not safe from the Reaping yet, and if he was to be left with one of his older siblings it was not with the one of his choosing. But Cersei, Cersei with all her tesserae and her poisonous name had come through safely.

And fool that he was, Jaime dared to dream he might too. With every year that came and his name had not been pulled, the Reaping not been rigged, he hoped that odds were in his favour as much as anyone else and the Dragons would not think to single out his family for his father's crimes. He had told himself he knew it was coming, but still he dared to hope.

And then his name had been called. It must have been his Grace's benevolence, leave him until he was eighteen and had the best chance. This was his being generous. After all, was he not a most fair King? Diligent and loving towards his people? The young souls sent to die each year, their deaths were not for vengeance or pettiness, but fair retribution for the children of the Crownlands who had been slaughtered. Slaughtered on the orders of Jaime's father.

This was justice.  Giving him this time was a mercy.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                               

#

_"You didn't need help making yourself look magnificent, you are a natural performer,"_

_"By which you mean show off?"_

_"Naturally,"_

_"I know you believe I have no heart, but when I lingered to kiss Cersei and make her go to Tyrion, I was actually thinking of them and not the cameras,"_

_"And in doing so won many hearts.  As I said 'natural' performer. You don't even have to think, it just comes to you. All anyone could talk about the next day was how brave and noble you looked. No one gave poor Edric Storm and Shireen Baratheon a mention, although I think it was too painful for us that year. Two twelve year olds...but I am sure your charm had something to do with it,"_

_"I certainly handled myself with more grace than you did,"_

_"You always handle yourself with more grace than me,"_

_"But this time you were truly exceptional,"_

#

The Games were a fact of life to Brienne. That there had once been children in her home that welcomed each summer with glee was bizarre, monstrous for only monsters loved the summer. Even when she was little, she could not stand her father's rambling tales of summers past. Her father would run his rough, calloused hand through her yellow hair and sigh softly, gently musing on the blistering hot days when he and his friends would run across the sands and lounge in the sun, and she would clamp her hands over her ears and shake her head. Summers were bad and that was all she needed to know.

Her father would look at her stubbornly turned back and sigh once more, cursing those wretched fools who dragged them into this predicament. Those rebels who couldn't just stay quiet and make the most of what they had. Rebels like himself, who had loathed the Capitol for its excess while they scrounged for a living, never knowing how worse it could get. Never knowing that one day, their children would live in fear of the lengthening days and growing sun.

The first time Brienne and her father split at the docks, Brienne destined for the ferry saved for Reaping candidates and Selwyn to the one for spectators, he cried. All through the trip to the mainland.  He waited until her blonde head was a speck on the horizon,  and wailed. Had he lived to see her sixteenth year, instead of stolen by the waves, chances are he would have ended up drowning anyway. He, and anyone within a five mile vicinity.

The year Brienne was reaped, she was sixteen years old, and already an adult. Taller than most and she didn't need any looking after. She worked on the docks and made do, growing muscles to match her height. She heard people say as she went passed that if she ended up being reaped, they'd put money down on her. She didn't have the training like the Careers from Dorne and the Reach, but she was stronger than the scrawny kids offered up from the rest of the Districts. She tried to take it as a compliment.

When her name was called, her size seemed more a hindrance than a help. A mad part of her couldn't help but feel that if she had been smaller, she could have slunk away in the crowds and remained hidden. A ripple of relief spread through the crowd as she revealed herself. An orphan, and not some doe eyed twelve year old that would sob and whimper. Yes. Worse sacrifices had been made. Not a tear was shed. And when she tripped and fell on her own big feet, there was laughter. Nervous, broken laughter. But laughter all the same.

 Maybe she could have taken hope from the fact her people did not write her off immediately, but  big and large tributes had died before and quite frankly what she wanted now was for the Stormlands to weep for her. Because no one else was going to.

Even her mentor smiled as he helped her stand.

"Don't worry," Beric Dondarrion assured her,  "You're big enough to get away with it, it might even help make you memorable,"

He gave the cameras a jovial wink. It had been one of his sober days.

A sturdy, strapping lad by the name of Bryce Caron joined her on stage, and the people of the Stormlands left almost light hearted. All things considered, it could have been far worse. Two healthy specimens with a fighting chance, far more preferable than two half starved babes in arms. Where would the justice have been in that? Where was the mercy?

 


	2. Wise Crone

 

_"And you did little to recommend yourself to the tributes after that, only growing in gracelessness. If sullen looks were a weapon, you could take Sandor Clegane in a death battle. Although in terms of ugliness he may have the edge,"_

_"He got you through the arena alive, you should not talk ill of him,"_

_"You talk 'ill of him', by which we both mean 'chat shit', abut him all the time,"_

_"He didn't see me safely through the arena. In fact I strongly remember him advising his tributes to take me down at first chance,"_

_"I'm half surprised he didn't try to get the other tributes to do the same to me,"_

#

 

Sandor scowled and looked the pretty boy up and down. He looked skinny, but strong. Clearly he had fought himself to the place of top dog at the care home, getting the best of the food for himself and his family. The years since his sixteenth birthday at the gold mine left him muscled and handy with a pickaxe. And he was handsome too, all gold hair and strong jaw. He lolled against the plush cushions of the train with easy grace, looking upon the chandeliers and decadent food as though they were his due.

If it had been anyone but Tywin Lannister's spawn sitting before him, he may have had a chance. But it couldn't have been a coincidence that out of all the boys chosen, it was Lannister's son. And if the queen wanted to send a message, why would she let the little twerp walk away?

"I don't know why I bother with you," Sandor Clegane growled, "You're a dead man as ever I've saw one,"

"And so would you give up on me?" Jaime asked aghast, "Where is your honour?"

"Ask the crippled twelve year old whose head I skull I crushed under my foot at the Cornucopia,"

"Friendly man, aren't you," Jaime smiled winningly, "How did you win sponsors again Crone?"

Clegane clenched his fists at the nickname used for mentors.

"I was good at killing and I looked like it," Clegane grunted, "I could look a tribute in the eye and throttle the life out of them as they called for their mother. Could you?

"You grew up in a care home also, did you not? You know the type of desperate, scheming scum that comes crawling out of those places. I daresay if I look hard enough, the blood lust will emerge," Jaime's lip quirked at the corner, "and I could look handsome while doing so,"

"The King wants you dead,"

"The King wants the Lannisters punished. My being alive and a puppet for the Capitol serves just as many uses. He left me until I was eighteen to give me a chance,"

Clegane grunted and took a swig of whiskey, glaring at the ornate crystal glass as though its very prettiness offended him.

"So you truly think you have got a shot?"

"I have a brother and sister who need me," Jaime snatched away the glass and poured the rest of its content down his throat, "And that's enough,"

 

#

_"Count yourself fortunate, Beric Dondarrion gave up on me two seconds in,"_

_"You asked for it,"_

_"Charming,"_

_"You literally asked for it,"_

#

 

Brienne sat stiff upon the velvet cushion, gazing wearily at the platters of food and lush surroundings with suspicion. Bryce Caron had been dragged off by his mentor, leaving Brienne stranded in the decadence of the Capitol. She kept her eyes fixed firmly away from the window, where the sea rapidly disappeared from view, draining into lake and then a puddle. She fiddled with them hem of her frayed Reaping dress, at the hangnail on her little finger, the scab on her knee. Her eyes itched but she did not weep, unlike Bryce who had not stopped since saying his final goodbyes. Brienne thanked the Seven she had been spared that ordeal.

"Well then," Beric Dondarrion clapped his hands together, causing Brienne to whip her head around to see him beaming at her from the door way, "Shall we start?"

Brienne clenched her jaw and nodded, hand folded tightly in her lap.

"You're a strong girl. Can you fish? Hunt? Do you know your plants?" he asked, sitting forward.

"Yes," Brienne said.

"Can you make a net?" Dondarrion pushed.

"Yes," Brienne said once more.

"What about weapons. Done any spear fishing? You're a good bet, I reckon I could wrangle a spear from some sponsors if you know your way around one,"

Brienne saw where this was going and only nodded, her tongue dry and heavy in her mouth.

"Could you make a trap and skewer them with a spear?"  
  
"No," Brienne said bluntly, eyes fixed on her mentor.

"You can't make a trap?" Beric quizzed, raising an eyebrow.

"I won't," Brienne replied, squaring her shoulders and waiting for his response.

Beric turned pale and ran his hand down his face. Groaning, he slumped back into his seat and reached blindly for a pitcher of wine.

"Mother have mercy," he moaned to himself. "Do you mean to say you won't kill anyone? Not even when you have the chance? When your life depends on it?"

"Why should others die so I can live?" Brienne protested.

"Because if someone has to live why not you?"

"Why me?"

Beric banged his head against the table.

Brienne waited as her mentor repeatedly bashed into the table, cursing between each bang.

"I thought I had a survivor. For once, I had a chance," Beric scowled and stood harshly, pacing around the cabin and kicking a mahogany liquor cabinet.

"What about your family? The people who came to say goodbye?" he pressed.

Brienne's composure wavered, but she kept her gaze steady. "I have no family. No one came to say goodbye,"

Beric's glare softened. "What about our District, think of your neighbours and the comfort it would bring to see you safe and happy?"

"Are you safe and happy?" Brienne shot back, barking out a harsh laugh of incredulity.

"When I'm liquored up I am," Beric confirmed, "Are you really refusing to play the game?"  
  
"I am,"

Brienne had lost her family, she had lost her home and she was soon to lose her life. But there was one thing left for her to cling onto.

"Then why am I wasting my time with you?," he stood and marched to the door, "If you are going to play the fool, I might as well pour my efforts into Bryce with Barristan and leave you to it,"

"Very well," Brienne swallowed. He was right, and she would not be selfish. But it hurt, to see the man who was meant to be her guide turn his back on her. But then if she was not going to accept his advice, why could he give her? Except for a hand to hold. A hand to hold and a sympathetic ear. But if that was all Brienne asked of Beric, why wouldn't he provide it? She was scared, for fucks sake. The man had surely sent no hopers into the arena with a warm hug and a soft word before, why couldn't he do the same for her?

Beric paused at the door and turned to face her. "At least promise you won't be an utter fool and try to play the hero,"

Brienne twisted round to face him. "If I see a child being butchered before me, I have no intention of letting them die,"

Beric groaned as though he were being slowly stabbed through the gut. "I have had many tributes over the year. Brave ones, dumb ones, players and dead men walking. But I never had a martyr before," he shook his head, "Very well. As your mentor I will give you one piece of advice," he turned back into the room and shoved a bottle of wine into her hand, "Get drinking. You're going to need it."

 


	3. The Father

_"He gave me one piece of advice and I even that I wouldn't follow,"_

_"I was lucky. My mentor was full of useful snippets of advice. During my practise for the interview Clegane he suggested I 'fuck off and die' on no less than fifteen occasions, even if it was advise better suited for the arena,"_

 

#

His prep team may have cooed and gawked at the sight of him, but that didn't stop them from tearing into Jaime like wild hyenas. He was used to being looked at, but his prep team salivated over him like he was a perfectly seasoned steak. They stripped him and scrubbed him and rid him of the beard he had been trying to grow since he was fifteen and only just got looking good. And still they fluttered around him, twittering like a trio of colourful birds. Peck, who was tasked with stealing Jaime's hard earned beard, was all over in green polka dots whilst Pia and Ami's skin matched with feathery wigs and dyed pink skin.

"Pia, Peck, Ami, that is enough!" his stylist; a round and bald man dressed in lavender silk embroidered with silver, cried with a soft voice on entering. He clapped his hands in pleasure his hands, "He is perfect!"

Jaime smirked and jutted his chest out. "So I have heard,"

"The name's Varys," the powdered and perfumes man stuck out his hand, "You're in safe hands with me,"

Jaime's eyes flickered over Peck and grimaced. "I look forward to working with you, provided _I_ don't end up tattooed all over with poker dots. It doesn't exactly scream out ferocious warrior,"

 

#

He was a handsome boy, his Grace would be the first to admit it. And as he was paraded out with his skin dusted gold, dressed in an ornate metal breastplate and matching gauntlets, a shimmering red silk cape flowing like a stream of blood behind him, more than one heart was broken that night. But of course the Lannister boy was going up against the likes of Loras Tyrell and Jon Snow, both pretty boys themselves. Although for dear Catelyn's sake, he did not have any intention of letting Jon Snow leave the arena alive. She had not asked for his death and was not going to show any gratitude for it, but it please the King to be honouring her so all the same.

 In fact, it was quite a good looking crop altogether that year. Edmure Tully was not a harsh sight and there were a couple of beauties as well. The stunning Arianne Martell and doe eyed Margaery Tyrell, along with the voluptuous Myranda Royce. Little Shireen Baratheon was a ghastly sight but she was never going to last long. Yes, he should do well out of whoever emerged from the arena. A Tyrell would be best, keeping those proud roses from growing too tall. But there was something pleasing about having a declawed lion around to sing whatever song Baelish hummed into his ear.

King Petyr Baelish reclined in his throne, his court cheering and stamping their feet as tribute after tribute emerged. Petyr smiled at his closest companion amiably, the gaiety of the crowds spreading to him. He did love the opening ceremonies, with the lights blazing under the moon and the stalls bursting with excited crowds. After all, he loved a good show as much as any man.

 

#

_"He did warn me about the Remake Centre, so that's something,"_

_"Gods, the Remake Centre. I think that was worse than the arena,"_

_"That's ridiculous,"_

 

_#_

Brienne never considered herself to be particularly sensitive. She was quite literally thick skinned. She had been raised on the sea and salt water had been a part of her as much as the hair on her head and the teeth in her mouth. Her hands were rough and calloused, serving her well as from days on the boat, weaving nets and gutting fish and weilding her oars.

Such rough skin served her significantly less well in the pampered Capitol. Her prep team had practically shuddered at the sight of her and seemed as though they'd prefer to touch her only with rubber gloves whilst dressed in protective suits. Still, they honourably powered through and scrubbed her skin raw. Her brittle yellow hair was as soft as silk and her scalp as ravaged as the remains of Valyria. All throughout she gritted her teeth and chewed her finger nails, only for her prep team to bat her hands away to prepare her for a manicure.

"You are lucky that Varys has requested the Stormlands District this year, otherwise it would be hopeless," Roelle; an ageless woman with red talons, hissed as she filed Brienne's nails, "I've never seen a more unfortunate specimen,"

"Her muscles should serve her well in the arena, and she has lovely long legs," Donyse said, rubbing rouge into Brienne's cheeks.

"As long her face doesn't scare them away," Roelle snarled.

"Alright ladies," a gentle voice called, "I can finish off here,"

Varys fluttered over towards Brienne, taking her chin in hand narrowing his eyes at her painstakingly made up face. He nodded in approval. "Good," he said, not caring to extrapolate and turning his back to her. "I will have one of my little birds bring in your attire,"

Brienne winced, and Varys must have had eyes in the back of his head for he turned to give her a reassuring smile.

"You need not worry, dear girl," he gave her a toothy smile, "I have never yet sullied my name by parading a tribute in some gaudy costume, and I do not intend to do so now,"

 

#

Sansa Stark looked so much like her mother. Petyr had practically lost his breath when he first saw her at the Reaping. And now gliding out in her chariot, she was spell binding. The dainty girl was donned in a glistening white silk grown, embroidered in blue and silver lace that glistened like ice. Her red hair was crowned with a wreath of blue winter roses. Next to her tribute partner, the Bolton boy who was snarling and hissing at the crowds in his wolf pelt, she looked unbearably gentle and vulnerable.

Baelish had sent the girl in as a punishment to her mother. His cat had still thought to refuse him, even though Ned Stark was now cold in his frigid Northern grave. And he had died years after the Rebellion, no sane person could point the death at Petyr.

(Which was exactly what Petyr told himself as he waited all those years to make his move.)

Petyr disliked drooping to such methods. He wanted Cat to _want_ him. But clearly in his wooing Petyr would need to give dear Catelyn ample reason to see sense. Safety for her family being one of them. Of course he intended to see Sansa safely out. But if the damn woman continued to be obtuse then next year he might not be so generous.

And yet, looking at the Stark girl with all her shining innocence and untouched beauty, Petyr wondered if it would be prudent to fix his sights on other targets. Other, younger and more pliable targets.

For once Petyr Baelish's sharp eyes was blind to anything other than the beautiful child-woman. But the audience was also in raptures over the ferocious Ramsay Bolton, the vivacious Tyene Sand and the coolly confident Mya Stone.

And for the first time, Brienne Tarth did not lack for admirers.

As she waited, more than one tribute and Crone shot her a look crossing between loathing and longing, some having to shield their eyes from the glare she let off. Even Bryce, in a cloak of feathers and a star studded doublet inspired by his home of Nightsong, seemed unsure of what to say to her. Beric and Selmy saw the danger and tried to shield her from the glares and gazes, but nothing could deter Jaime Lannister and when he wanted his voice to be heard, it would.

"Well, well, well," he smiled, planting himself firmly before the Stormlanders. "Beric, Selmy," he said by way of greeting.

"Jaime," they both nodded, cool but with no malice. It struck Brienne as odd that for these weeks they were all enemies, and yet the rest of the time the Victors were natural allies.

"Did your prep team break down in tears when they first got their hands on you, or did they power through?" Lannister demanded of Brienne after running his glinting emerald eyes all over her.  

Brienne knew well enough how to respond to such taunts. "They offered a few pleas to the Seven but they soldiered on,"

Jaime nodded in approval. "Very brave," he said, lazily patting the glossy neck of the chariot horse. "My hats off to them, and to Varys. Having him for your stylist can prove to be a boon in many ways,"

Varys had paid homage to her homeland and sent her out in a sheath covered in sapphires. A crown of silver, twisting and bursting into suns and moons, was set upon her pale golden head. Her face was made up to be full of angles and sharp lines, and the sapphires glinted viciously in the lights. She didn't look beautiful as such, she was too hard and the gems too violent, but you were hard pressed to look away.

Had Brienne planned to play for sponsors, she may have offered blessings on Varys's head for making her so memorable. But this was the first time she heard the cheers of the Capitol in person. The first time she truly heard the riotous cheers for the deaths of these dolled up children.

For her death.


	4. The Many Faced God

_"Hyperbole my dear Brienne, a long word I know but I am sure you can manage it. Even if your interview itself proves you are a woman of few words. Does your skin crawl every time you see yourself during those re-watches of yours,"_

_#_

The Tyrells were absolute darlings, sugar and spice and all things stomach emptying nice. Margaery's thick chestnut hair was in waves all down her back, with a crown braided around her forehead. Her emerald green gown swept along the stage as she delicately sunk into her seat and extended her hand for the Master of Ceremonies to kiss. Loras strutted along in his white and gold tuxedo with a smile that made Jaime want to bash his teeth in. The Dornish tributes were playing up their reputation as seductive killers, a role the daughter played somewhat better than the son, who rather looked as though he was going to slide off the stage in his own nervous sweat. Even so he managed to get himself together well enough, even if he was a poor follow up to his sister whose aggressive charm had the audience eating out of her hands.

Edric Storm tried to posture and play up being a warrior, in a display that would have been comical if it weren't so tragic. Shireen Baratheon just talked about her knowledge of plants and shelter building, winning a few oohs and awws at her sweet little smile. Melara was pleasant if uninspiring, and Jaime shot her an encouraging grin as she thankfully fled from the stage.

And then it was Jaime's turn. Debonair in a grey suit and red shirt, he strolled on stage. Taking care to look confident but not smug, he shot the audience a winsome smile form the corner of his mouth. His stride was long and measured, steady and swift but not rushed. They eyes of the world was watching and he was not going to stumble.

"This boy looks very assured of himself," noted the legendary Syrio Forel, "I wonders what causes him to walk with such pride,"

"Hours of practice is what causes this to walk with such pride, hours of practice making his Crone watch until this boy's Crone took hold of a five hundred golden dragons ash try and hurl it at his head. He was not pleased with this boy,"

There were chuckles from the audience. A good sign. Jaime released a fist he didn't know he was clenching and sunk back into the fine leather seat.

"And he is not worried that the Martells have proclaimed their desire for vengeance and volunteered so they could 'see you butchered like the flea infested dog you are'?" Syrio asked, his voice soft and gentle as a snake sliding through lush fields of grass.

Jaime spread his hands and shrugged. "Naturally. But was there ever any doubt? And my heart might be thudding a bit more if they hadn't announced it before the entire a world. If they knew shit about strategy they would have done better to lie low and wait until my guard was down." He shrugged. "But then those Martells are a spoiled lot, what do they know about getting their hands dirty?" He smiled modestly at the audience.  "They don't have the same advantages as a 'flea infested dog' like myself,"

There was more laughter, louder and warmer. Jaime's smile grew as he took it in. The glare of the lights was less harsh, less unforgiving and he'd grown accustomed to the heat.

"Besides, flea infested dogs do quite well in the Games. Just ask my Crone." Jaime turned to the audience and cupped his mouth. "Isn't that right Sandor!"

The audience was in hysterics. The atmosphere was warm and friendly, they wall having such fun. Jaime stifled a smirk. Good. Now it was time to turn tings on its head and turn their laughter to tears. He waited for Syrio to give him the cue. It had to be now, the timing was perfect.

"But he was not always a 'flea infested dog', was he? He was once part of a proud pack of lions,"

"Better a flea infested dog who is loyal to his King and Capitol, than a traitorous lion," Jaime said fervently, tears obediently popping into his eyes. He blinked, careful to keep those tears subtle and tasteful, lest his makeup start running. The laughter died and it seemed as though the whole world was holding its breathe. Jaime lingered, allowing the tension to build until he could taste it.

He sighed and looked away, as though he could bear to look anyone in the eye, his shame being so great. He fiddled with his cufflinks for just a second, like a naughty little boy being hauled before the Head Master. He looked up, his shoulders hunched and figure humbled. He blinked, sighed once more, and straightened his back.

"Ever since the Gods saw fit to see my name be reaped, I have thanked them by the hour for giving me this chance to repay the blood debt owed by my family. I will gladly give my life so that our realm may prosper, the dead may be honoured and my brother and sister can live their lives without the sins of our father hanging above them. Whether I live or die, I can do so with the knowledge my debt has been cleared and my family honour returned,"

The audience rose to its feet, forming a near stampede in its approval. Jaime exhaled in relief and smile with gratitude at their forgiveness. He had been worried about laying it one thick, but then the Crownlanders' didn't really do subtle, with their feathered suits and jewelled implants. Clearly, Jaime could not gush enough. He waited for a lull.

"And what's more," he spoke above the din, "I know I speak for myself and all my fellow tributes; particularly Jon and Edmure and Shireen, when I thank the King, King's Landing and the Crownlands all, for taking us into your hearts and being forgiving enough to give us this opportunity to do penance on behalf of our families,"

Now the applause was deafening, its sheer volume leaving Jaime's ear's ringing. Of course, nothing would have been loud enough to block out the sound of Jon Snow grinding his teeth. _'Well what are you going to do about it, Jonny Boy?'_ Jaime thought, _'Disagree in front of the audience?'_

Jaime stood and bowed. As he rose, he risked a glance at the King's box, where Petyr Baelish stood in turn and raised a glass of champagne.

Jaime gave the audience one last bow before gliding from the stage, his feet on air.

He was going home.

#

Clearly blue was to be her signature colour. Sapphire blue for her homeland, sapphire blue for her eyes, Varys had insisted.

Sansa Stark had once more struck gold in terms of beauty. She wore a gown of forest green, made of stiff rustling satin and trimmed with white fur around the hem, over her thin shoulders and across the boat neck. Throughout her interview she was calm and composed, charmingly vulnerable on the gaping stage. Tyene Sand looked equally dainty and ladylike, but in her baby blue eyes was the slightest hint of danger, just to add some spice. Podrick Payne and Jeyne Westerling of the Westerlands were mannered and likable, but left little impression. Mya Stone held more promise, a strong and hardy young girl, and Lynesse Hightower shone in her interview. But aside from the usual safe bets from Dorne and the Reach, only a handful of tributes stood out.

Ramsay Bolton was one. He had made his entrance into the Games in a bloodied wolf skin and since then he had only gotten more fearsome. He was the bookies' favourite and was the name on everyone's tongue. It seemed that the North would have its first Victor in seven years, but watching the gleam in his eyes as he eyed up the knives in the training area and how he talked with relish at the thought of the arena, Brienne couldn't help but wonder if the North was going to call no take-backsies on this one.

During her own interview, facing the enigmatic Syrio Forel who wouldn't stop looking at her with those piercing eyes, Brienne felt her tongue turn numb and hands grow heavy. Brienne felt raw and exposed before the millions of eyes and screens peering at her, studying her muscles and blue satin gown. It was a thing of beauty and gave Brienne some elegance, but inside it Brienne felt like an shaved bear in silk.

The Ladies from Dorne, the Reach and Westerlands had all taken the yellow and gold from their District's sigil as inspiriation for their interview dresses. Tyene Sand wore a ball gown of yellow, with a skirt of tulle that sparkled in the lights and poofed all around her. Lynesse Hightower's dress was of gold silk and was a tightly fitted mermaid tale which clung like a second skin down to her knees and then flared out all around her. Young Jeyne Westerling meanwhile looked as though she were being swallowed alive in a gown of gold velvet, with large princessy sleeves that were a tad too long and  neckline that was a touch too large.

In comparison, Varys took care to dress Brienne simply with a modest kneck line and a cape that flowed into a train behind her. No ornaments, just the beauty of the fabric.

Her escort had informed Brienne that Capitol was already spinning a fable about her 'beast to beauty' transition at Varys's hands. Which naturally, brought Brienne a great deal of solace.

She stammered and stuttered through her interview, with Syrio Forel asking if a cat had gotten her tongue and then going off into a spiel about cats being the ultimate warrior that Brienne didn't exactly follow but the audience seemed to enjoy, and she was back off again.

Beric didn't spare her a look as she hovered back stage, so focussed was he on getting Bryce prepped. It was Jaime Lannister, fresh from bidding Podrick and Jeyne off to bed.

"Well done, you did a good job," he remarked lightly.

Brienne let out an incredulous bark of laughter, the first sound that had come to her naturally in hours.

"Alright," Lannister conceded, "You were as dumb as an ox but your dress was gorgeous and your muscles were on show, so that will do." Jaime frowned and looked over at Beric. "I would have thought you would have been in with a good shot, I wonder why your Crone favours that other boy so,

Brienne kept her mouth shut, refusing to give anything away that he might report to his tributes. And yet, something in his eyes left Brienne feeling as though he already knew what she was planning. He lay a hand on her bare arm and leaned forward to whisper into her ear.

"Whatever you are planning, don't let that Bolton boy get near you. You can bet anything he won't let you go quickly,"

Brienne had still been flushed from the heat of the stage and yet she felt her blood run cold at the mere thought of dying at Ramsay Bolton's hands. Her death was already going to be broadcast for the entertainment of millions, but if Ramsay Bolton was going to be the one to take her down she would have to look into the eyes of a creature who was relishing in her agony. He would be the last thing she would ever see. All those years, growing up by the sea and playing on the beach, listening to stories at her father's knee and feeling the caresses in her hair as he brushed away the tears brought about by the jibes and taunts of the other children, learning to sail his boat and keeping them alive by the skin of her teeth, powering through her father's death and the grief and loneliness to find some semblance of contentment, to end thus?

It would be a bit shit.

But then, could there be a good way to die for one so young? What would be better, to brought down in better, to starve and freeze as her mouth cried for water, to find berries of poison and hope that the ones in the arena would make her go easily? Logically, Brienne knew that the last option would be the easier way out, but even if she had made up her mind to let herself die, Brienne didn't know if she had it in her to deal the killing blow.

 

#

 

_"The interview isn't what makes me cringe,"_


	5. The Stranger

_"Why do you do this to yourself? It does no good,"_

_"That's not true,"_

_"They're dead, and making yourself miserable isn't going to change that. It won't bring them back. And their families would still rather you died than lived,"_

_"Are you seriously telling me you don't take time to remember the tributes in your games? Not a single one?"_

_"Not a single one. It's pointless,"_

 

_#_

Jaime's year had been legendary. A Lannister, a Baratheon, a Martell, a Tully, _two_ Tyrells and a Stark bastard all in one arena. How thrilling! Such drama, such conflict. It couldn't have been a coincidence, but who cared when the spectacle was so splendid?

The Stormlands offered up Edric Storm and Shireen Baratheon. The two twelve year olds who had cried on stage and had to be carried by the Gold Cloaks to the train when their legs stopped working. Their stylist had intended to pay homage to their homeland and left them swamped in cloaks of midnight velvet studded with fiery orange and ruby gems, small faces peaking out from beneath gold helmets engraved with thunder bolts. Scored three and five respectively, Edric was lost in the blood bath. Shireen lasted a bit longer, surprisngly clever and capable of foraging for food and covering her tracks. As the little Arryn boy had not been forced to contend that year, Jaime suspected that her fate had not actually been written before the Reaping. But then the Gods loved a show as much as anyone. She burned in a forest fire, courtesy of the Capitol.

The Riverlands' tributes had been dressed in glittering silver scales, and made a splash on the first night that turned sadly let off few ripples. Edmure Tully of the Riverlands scored well enough, but he lacked the charm to counter his toxic name and knew not how to find his own food. He starved, following his partner, Merry Frey, back home early in the games.

The Vale provided Harold Hardying and Myranda Royce, both charming and skilled. But their entrance had been underwhelming, wearing grey padded suits of a coarse material in order to imitate the stony terrain of their home. Their interviews went somewhat better, both sparkling with a cocky good humour. They lasted until week two, when the Games had been in a lull and they were driven into the Dornish tributes path by the same forest fire that took Shireen' Baratheon's life. The ensuing battle had been close. Brutal and bloody, just enough to keep the people of King's Landing and the Crownland's satisfied but essentially just another squirmish to disappear into the history of the Games.

The Reach always produced crowd favourites. Valiant and noble tributes who had trained since birth for the great honour of representing their District. Never a Tyrell, as it happened. Never a child from the Crowndland's most steady supporter. But then the Reach was so populous that the odds were in their favour. And if someone asked why the other noble houses which had little need for tesserae still found their children in the games....well who were they to question the Crownlands?

Margaery Tyrell was the first rose to enter into the arena. Jaime did not know what the Tyrells had said or done to earn the Capitol's ire, but Loras Tyrell ended up joining his sister on the Reaping stage.

The brother bristled with fury as he took his place, unable to follow his sister's lead and smile winsomely for the cameras.

She was eighteen. Beautiful and skilled with the bow and knowledgeable of plants. Which one that could  revive a dying man, and which one that could leave them gasping and choking on their own blood. During her parade she wore a sheath of pure white silk and was tattooed in gold, vines and roses and fruit twisting round her arms and blossoming on her cheeks. She received a score of ten.

Loras Tyrell had trained with the sword since childbirth and wisely took his sister's lead in everything else. He matched his sister with a score of ten. Naturally, they were the favourites to win. They recognised Jaime's skill, and saw a natural ally against the Dornish tributes. From the first day of training they went on a charm offensive and wormed themselves into his good graces, along with Jon Snow. Together, they formed a pack that the bookies going wild and the audience salivating at the mouth.

Jaime slaughtered them the first night.

Jon Snow first, with whom Jaime had been left to guard their supplies. The pouting curly locks had been the second of heart throbs Jaime had been forced to contend with that year. As they sat huddled over the campfire, Jaime gently quizzed the boy on his family. His elder brother Robb who was his constant companion, his sweet younger brothers Bran and Rickon. His charming sister Sansa and Arya, whose very name brought a light to his eyes.

Jaime knew that feeling well.

"It seems fitting," Jaime mused and they watched the flames of their fire, "That we should fight together,"

Jon stiffened beside him as Jaime gave him a charming smile.

"Your father must be so proud," Jaime continued, "To see you representing your District. The whole North along with him,"

"My father is a good man," Jon said harshly.

"I know," Jaime said quickly, "And he must be grateful to have you to right his father and brother's wrongs for him,"

Jon looked as though he wished to gut Jaime and roast him over the fire. Instead he took his sword and ground it into the ground.

"Don't talk of my father like that," he hissed.

  _'You'd do best  to keep your mouth shut and agree,'_ Jaime thought, _'Don't you see there's a target on your back?'_

"I am sure you love your father well, it's just..." Jaime lingered, fighting down a smile. He could feel the Capitol watching, clinging onto every second. This is what they had been waiting for ever since the Reapings, the rebels' children facing the sins of their fathers. If the audience was hungry for a good show, Jaime was more than willing to spoon feed them until they were stuffed. And even as Jon Snow turned his back and fixed his gaze onto the woods, Jaime could tell he was waiting for him to speak just as much.

"It's just, my family has had to carry the burden of my father's wrongdoings our entire lives," Jaime explained, "And I only hope to see those sins wiped clean, even if they must be washed away with my blood,"

Jaime took his eating dagger and placed it across Jon Snow's neck.

"Or yours," he whispered, and cut open his ally's throat.

"If it is any consolation," he whispered to boy's dumb, glassy eyes, "You were a dead man already,"

Moments later he heard the cannons, signalling the rest of his pack had succumbed to the poison that had been burning in their veins. Jaime dropped his uneaten dinner and ground it beneath his foot.

"A shame I'm such a poor chef," he said, smiling winningly.

He stood back as the hover craft descended and kindly tidied away his mess. With nothing but the crackle of the fire and smell of ash to keep him company, a nonchalant calm flooded him with warmth. So many names down, and he had proved he could play their game.

With the death of his allies, and his proven declaration that he desired to atone for his family's crimes, Jaime had sponsors coming out of his ears. Sadly, so did the Dornish. After that massacre, the Games rapidly descended into cat and mouse between the South and West.

A victory for Dorne did not necessarily require an overall win. They would prefer it, of course. But their tributes were volunteers and knew what they were getting into. No, a victory for the Dornish, was a Westerland's defeat at their hands. Ever since the butchering of Elia Martell an her children, the Dornish had been baying for blood. And when a Lannister name was called, nothing else would do but for a Martell to take his life. Arianne and Quentyn Martell had blazed out on their chariots to screams of approval, gowned in burning cloaks of yellow and tunics of rubies, golden spears in hand.

Day and night they stalked Jaime, sniffing him out like a bloodhound after a fox. But Jaime wasn't a fox, he was a lion thank you very much. The Gamemakers dragged out the hunt for two weeks, letting them get tantalisingly close only to send in a freak storm or earth quake to drag them apart, until the Capitol was frothing at the mouth for a climax. And did they deliver.

Jaime had been doing well out of the sponsors, never going cold or hungry or thirsty. But then the food and other gifts began to run low, and he had to ration his food strictly. He prayed his audience had not lost interest in him, and Clegane was saving for something special.

Jaime welcomed the final silver parachute with pleasure, only for his stomach to curdle cold at what he found inside. A little brooch of yellow gold. A sun and spear, the sigil of the Martells, with a ruby in the centre. His reprieve had ended. A flash flood turned the ground sodden and knee deep with mud. Jaime sought through his supplies, keeping his sword and shield and throwing the rest in the lake.

He kept a hold of the brooch.

Being quick would not be an option, not with the mud so thick. He would have to hold his ground instead. The storm slightly balanced out his odds. He was outnumbered and out-trained, but the Dornish specialised in being quick and sly, and were unused to such heavy rain. That was what he hoped at least. When the time came, he threw in everything he had, and planted some savage blows onto his opponents. A gale and flashes of lighting had torn down and obliterated the trees that had been Jaime's cover, paving the Martells' way. But then they pummelled him with the wood of their staffs and sent him flying into the ground. His mouth filled with silt and blood as the Martells loomed above him. The girl reached down and dangled his sword before him. They watched him writhe in the ground and smiled, but they did not kill him. They were going to make it slow.

"You know," Jaime pointed out, his voice oddly flippant even to his own ears, "If you kill me, then there is nothing left but for you to kill each other,"

"Maybe," Arianne shrugged, "Or maybe we have a little deal with the King. _We_ were the Crownland's staunch allies and the King is merciful,"

"And I thank the Gods for his mercy," Jaime snarked, eyes narrowing. He raised his head, bones and muscles screaming. Through the rain and mud a glimmer of gold caught his eye. On the Martell's chests were matching brooches, gold sun and spears with a ruby in the centre.

"Nice pins," Jaime smiled, "Very pretty,"

"From our District,  just came this morning. We intend to thank them personally when we return home to them," Arianne smirked.

"That's very nice of you," Jaime nodded, "But, you're just missing one thing. They are not from your Districts," Jaime reached into his pocket and brought out his own brooch. "They are from mine,"

He pressed down on the ruby. Jaime buried his head into the ground, guarding his eyes from the explosions ripping the Martells' chests apart. The explosion rang in his ears, matched by the thundering of the cannons. He waited, before looking up at the pile of blood and flesh smouldering before him.

"I will make sure to pass on your thanks,"

#

_"I don't believe you,"_


	6. The Maiden

_"I feel like I have to remember them. It's all I can do. I won't let their memories fade, not when I could do nothing to save them. Even if it hurts,"_

_"Dear Brienne, ever the martyr,"_

_"They died so I could live, how can I forget them after that?"_

_"Not all of them are worth remembering, from what I can recall,"_

_"I won't lie. Some I would rather forget,"_

                                                                                                                                #

"I thought I had a winner, you know," Beric told her, "I thought for once; just once, I would be able to bring one back,"

Brienne averted her gaze form Beric and zipped up her jacket. She kept her distance but she could still smell the alcohol on his breathe, pungent enough to be cut with a rusty knife.

"If I could just let one live, just see one of them through it, this mentoring might be worth it. If I could just bring one home,"

"I'm sorry," Brienne finally looked him in the eye, "But that one won't be me,"

Beric strolled forward and gripped her shoulders. "And this folly about protecting the others, you intend to keep that up as well?"

Brienne found her chin wobbling and eyes growing red and itchy. "I have to," she whispered, "What am I if I don't?"

"Alive, God willing," Beric swore, pulling her close, "Stupid, brave girl. I intend to see you back out of the arena safely,"

Brienne could not remember the last time she had been embraced. She relaxed into Beric's arms and wished it would all end now, that the last touch she would remember would be gentle and not the killing blow of some terrified child. Mayhap it would not and whatever pain she felt in the arena would be followed by the hug of her father, and even her brother and mother and baby sisters long since dead.

But she didn't want to join them. Not yet. For all her bravado, she did not want to die.

#

The arena was a village.

_"10"_

Beautiful, with thatched cottages, a sparkling stream and a dear little brick well.

_"9"_

There was a bakery. Brienne could smell the bread.

_"8"_

 The Cornucopia was in the village centre,

_"7"_

an immaculate village green.

_"6"_

The village was surrounded by dense forest,

_"5"_

from which Brienne could hear the singing of birds.

_"4"_

Peaking over the trees, the sparkling white towers of a castle could just be seen.

_"3"_

The clock ticked down,

_"2"_

 and Brienne was trembling to the point she feared she would fall off her pedestal and be torn to smithereens. 

_"1"_

She turned her back on the bloodbath and ran.

#

 

She made for the forest. Far from the stream and well and the bakery. Far from the canons. The Careers would mark it as their own territory and the rest would be forced to make do. She descended deeper and deeper into the woods, until her head pounded and throat screamed from lack of water. And still she kept stumbling on, until the blessed sung of falling water sang to her ears. A waterfall, like the ones back home. And so even though every sense screamed danger, that any fool in the woods would be drawn to the sound, Brienne stumbled blindly until she felt the spray of the water against her cheeks.

Pacing herself, she took careful sips lest she overdo herself and end up crippled in pain. Thus sated, she entered a snug cave, curled up in a ball, told herself she was back in Tarth, and slept.

She was awoken in the dark of night by the sounds of screams and jeers. Recognising the voices of Sansa Stark and young Podrick Payne, Brienne didn't hesitate to remember her promise. Armed with nothing but her fists and good intentions, she found the two young children fleeing desperately. Through the trees and branches she heard the careers from the Reach pounding after them. Smothering her hands over their mouths, she hauled them kicking and sobbing off the ground and bundled them into the cave. Keeping the pair clutched against her and huddling against the ragged rock.

The thundering footsteps grew closer and Pod began shaking in her arms. Hot tears coursing down Sansa's face made Brienne's grip on her grow slick. The Reach tributes grew quiet, their feet shuffling against the grass as they searched for the disappearing tributes. Brienne pulled the pair closer, steeling herself for the moment when they would be found.

And then came the screams. The round rumbled. Rocks scraped and shattered to the ground, crushing the tributes beneath them. Closing her eyes and waiting out the landslide, it was only until the world was grew still that her hold loosened, and she tuck her head out. She blinked as dust made her eyes water and lungs grow tight. Before her lay the Careers, eyes blank and skulls crushed in like porcelain dolls. She turned back and wordlessly returned to her two new charges. Once more she pulled them close, and in their warmth she drifted off.

#

Bryce Caron's face joined the dead tributes on the fourth night, and Brienne mourned that her home would see no survivor that year. She did not know what was going down with the remaining tributes, but for the most part she and her charges were let be. Water was no problem, and Sansa's later father had prepared all his children on finding food. Even so, their sources ran low. Brienne tried to keep Pod and Sansa close to the cave, but they insisted on making themselves useful.

"Why did you help us?" Sansa asked one night, as Brienne lit a dismal fire.

Brienne shrugged, focussing on skinning her squirrel. 

"I suppose I'm just a glutton for punishment," she said at last. She skewered the squirrel and stuck it over the flames. "And squirrel as well, I'm a glutton for that also,"

#

The screams came at midnight. Sansa and Pod clutched at Brienne and begged her to stay, but as the sound of begging and pleading gave way to desperate whimpers, Brienne ripped herself from their grasp and stalked out. She clutched a heavy stone, ready to bash a head in. She found a sharp piece of flint and held it in her other hand.

"Still squealing are you?" a Northern voice hissed, "I admire you, you do give me good sport,"

Moving as slow as a cat, Brienne edged closer. As shadowy figures became solid, the stench of blood and shit flooded Brienne's nostrils.

"Please, please, just end it,"

It was Jeyne Westerling, the Westerlands' girl tribute. The one who came with Pod. Even in the dark, Brienne could see the blood pooling black around her. Ramsay Bolton had savaged her like a beast, and still he continued to feast.

Brienne lifted the flint and plunged it into his shoulder. Ramsay Bolton reared back and clawed wildly at the air. Brienne thrust her fist into his nose and felt the bone crunch, the hot blood spurt down her wrist. She kneed him in the groin and sent him wallowing in the dirt beside his victim.

As tenderly as though she were a babe, Brienne lifted the whimpering Jeyne Westerling into her arms and carried her back to the cave. The girl died an hour later. And weeping and calling for her family to come and take away the pain. Brienne, Pod and Sansa held her hand and whispered gently throughout.

King Petyr watched is all. He saw the display and pursed his lips in distaste. His Gamemakers were waiting for him to give his order to see the trio punished for such insolence, but for now the Brienne beast was saving him a job and would not be disposed off.

Jaime Lannister watched it all. He saw himself do away with his allies and enemies with nary a blink to the eye, not a clue as to what would come next. And he watched the girl who risked her neck for the tributes he could not save, doing more than he ever had. He watched. He watched and he planned.

#

The days trickled by and the trio continued to be left to their own devices. Together they watched the night sky and counted the fallen tributes.

"That is eight now," Pod whispered, "Three left other than us,"

"Ramsay is still alive," Sansa said, "I bet most of the deaths are because of him,"

Brienne remembered the Northern boy who had roared for the cameras in his wolf's pelt, the joy in his cold blue eyes. She shuddered and nodded her silent agreement. She only hoped that Bryce had not met his end at his hands, for she doubted he would be merciful.

"If all three of us make it and we are the last ones," Sansa looked up at Brienne, asking the question that lingered hot and heavy over them as survival grew ever closer and tangible enough to near touch, "What then?"

"No point thinking of that," Brienne said gruffly, "Let's just take things day by day,"

That was to be their final day.

Having cleaned off the last two contenders, Nymeria Sand and Michel Redfort, in the courtyard of the glittering white castle, he began his search for the remaining three. Quiet as a wolf, he prowled the woods and followed the sound of the waterfall.

He found Sansa first. His fellow Northerner had been left at the cave to guard their supplies as Brienne and Podrick searched for food. They heard her screams and began charging for the cave. Brienne ordered Podrick to stay behind but of course he ignored her. Brienne reached out tackled Ramsay to the ground. Sansa stumbled, blood from a hundred cuts gushing into the stones beneath.

Ramsay hooked his leg around Brienne and tried to flip her other. Brienne held her ground and curled her hand into his matted hair. Ramsay grasped desperately for his fallen knife and jammed it into the side of Brienne's thigh. She reared back in pain, pulling Ramsay with her. Clutching his head, she smashed it against the rocks, again and again until it was ripe as a peach. Blood squirted out and flowed into the water below.

"Sansa?" Brienne asked desperately, "Sansa?"

Podrick knelt and felt for a pulse. "She's gone," he whispered.

Brienne threw Ramsay's lifeless body off her and into the stream. Podrick moved blindly towards her as she curled into a ball, the pain in her thigh blanked out by the stab to her gut, and the fear that began to numb her toes and fingers. Podrick wrapped his arms around her.

"Please," he whispered, "I know what you mean to do, please don't,"

Brienne thumbed the tears away from his face. "I have to," she murmured, "If I don't, then what am ?"

She pushed him away, and struggling to stand she planted her hands on his shoulders.

"Go into the cave," she ordered, "I don't want you to watch,"

Face white and eyes red, Pod buried into her for one last hug, then nodded obediently and turned his back. Watching him traipse away Brienne felt a ripple of gratitude that his touch would be the last she ever felt. Alone and forlorn, he entered the cave. And that is where he was when it collapsed on top of him. All Brienne remembered was the screams burning her throat as she was dragged from the arena, and then darkness as she was pricked with a needle and sentenced to sleep.

#


	7. The Smith Rebuilds

_"Are you alright?"_

_"I just don't feel like talking anymore,"_

_"Starting to feel nervous?"_

_"Just a little,"_

_"It will all be over soon, in some form or the other,"_

_"And then what?"_

#

Jaime awoke in his hospital bed and wondered he didn't feel more grateful to be alive. The Capitol staff brought him food and bowed obsequiously before their new Victor, and Jaime played his part and smiled and winked for their benefit, warming himself up for his big interview. Once back to peak health, his skin clear of unsightly scars and blemishes, his stylists dressed him in a sleek black tuxedo. They dolled him up and delivered him to the stage, to be fawned over and paraded for the audience. Sandor had few words for him, just a short whisper as he waited to enter the stage.

"Baelish is letting you live because he thinks a tamed lion could be useful," he said, "Make you sure you let him keep thinking that,"

"Wasn't planning to do otherwise, all I want to do is get back home and I don't intend to make the journey any harder," Jaime assured him.

He ascended up into the glaring spotlight, where he joke and japed with Varys and played the handsome cocksure fool he had been before entering the arena. He beamed at the crowds, only seeing  the faces of dead children looking back at him. He blinked and tried to conjure up the faces of Cersei and Tyrion. In a matter of days they would be returned to him, and something like calm filled him with warmth.

Then the Recap was played. He saw himself, golden and handsome, waving and posing in his ruby studded breastplate. And there was Melara Heatherspoon, gathering her courage to put on a brave face. They followed the Martells and the Reach, with the Stormlands hot on their heels. Jaime lost his breath at the sight of so many dead children. And how many died at his hands?

He began to see things. He saw how in  between kisses to the crowds Quentyn looked at his larger than life sister with something that looked almost like loathing. Did the boy resent his need to match his sister in family loyalty and courage?

When Margaery Tyrell reached up onto her toes and kissed her brother on the cheek she whispered something into his ear, and squeezed his hand.

Edmure Tully had tears on his cheeks, even as he tried to look brave.

Edric Storm and Shireen Baratheon looked so tiny in their cloaks. Jon Snow ignored the crowds and focussed on comforting Jeyne Poole, who trembled even though she was swathed in thick glossy furs.

He watched him kill the people he swore to defend, all the while with a smile on his face and pithy comment on his lips. Such good comic timing. From the audience Jaime could see that even the King was laughing along.  The laughter stayed in the snake's eyes as he stood toe to toe with Jaime and placed the heavy gold crown on his head.

"A golden crown for a golden boy," Baelish murmured, lips well pleased beneath his neatly pointed beard, "I will do well out of you,"

It wasn't until the next day that Jaime found out exactly what he meant. In his interview he swore to do whatever the Capitol asked of him, and he meant to do whatever he needed to go home. But he wouldn't do _that._ He couldn't. He just wanted to go home, to see his brother and sister again.

Tyrion greeted him at the train station, and the two brothers clung onto each other as though they wished to never be parted again.

"Where's Cersei?" he asked as they finally broke away, "Where is she?"

He would never get an official answer, but the mockingbird pin placed on a neat pile of Cersei's clothes gave him all the answers he needed.

 

#

Brienne didn't know what style her recaps would take. What story they could form around a girl who spent the entire Games hiding, flaunting the Capitol's rules and refusing to fight for herself. Stifling in a heavy blue velvet gown and chafing golden choker and wrist cuffs, she watched in numb bemusement as charming flute music played over the Reapings and Chariot rides. The light hearted music turned heavy and sinister as Ramsay Bolton was rolled out, flashing his teeth and snarling in his wolf pelt.

Their arrival in the idealistic village removed all traces of doubt.

It was a fucking fairy tale.

The ritualistic butchering of thirteen children was being played as a children's story, with pretty villages and a castle and a deep, dark wood. And Ramsay was the Big Bad Wolf.

All the other battles were played with thrilling and finger tingling music, with emphasis placed on their courage and honour and sacrifice. And yet every time Ramsay was on screen chilling music was blared out and turned the audience's blood to ice. He was a rouge, one who refused to play the game with the appropriate honour and nobility. Because apparently, there was a wrong and villainous way to kill children.

Brienne was the sweet yet misguided hero whose desire to stay out of the Games was played as cowardly dereliction of duty. It was only until she confronted Ramsay was honour restored to the Games and the world set to right, Brienne finally growing in courage and accepting her obligations. She destroyed Ramsay, and had a moment to wallow in her triumph. And then Podrick was murdered before her eyes. It was no matter she'd rather Pod live as her reward, in these Games there was only one prize and it was not up to her to choose.

She left the arena to a chirpy cacophony of bird song and flute music.

"A bloody fairy tale," Beric had hissed as he escorted her back to the lift, "They actually made you into a fairy tale,"

"I think it is clever," a jaunty voice called, "They had to put some spin on it, why not do something different?"

"Lannister," Beric nodded.

"Congratulations," Jaime grinned at Brienne, "Good job on your victory. Although you had best prepare yourself for a whole lot of shit coming your way,"

"Jaime," Beric growled, wrapping an arm around Brienne protectively, "Not here. Now is not the time?"

"What do you mean?" Brienne demanded, "Not the time for what?"

"I just mean to say," Jaime said innocently, "That you should steel yourself for a lot of princessy dresses, all frills and sparkles. Nothing else will do for our fairy tale heroine,"

"No," Brienne choke.

"Oh yes," Jaime cheered as he spun on his heels, calling over his shoulder, "In fact, tell them from me I think you would look darling in some wings and a sparkly wand,"

 

 


	8. The Warrior Awakens

Jaime Lannister came to see her off at the train station.

"I will see you soon," he promised, "On your Victory Tour," he added hastily at Beric's harsh glare. He gave her hand a squeeze and Brienne was surprised to see genuine tenderness in his eyes.

"I know this is hard for you, and you are going to go through hell, but we all know how you feel," he told her earnestly, "We're all in the same boat," he dropped his voice and whispered, "Be careful. The King isn't thrilled with you. Didn't like the stunt you pulled with Podrick and Sansa, and rumour has it that it's giving the Districts ideas,"

"if that is true, why did he let me live?" Brienne demanded, her stomach dropping. Madly, for not the first time in recent events she was grateful to be an orphan.

"Well, he couldn't let young Pod live, that is what you wanted. And he might feel some gratitude for keeping Sansa alive," Jaime explained.

"Why?" Brienne's brow furrowed, "Why would he feel grateful for that?"

"Rumour has it that our gracious King Petyr was friends with Catelyn Stark. After her husband's convenient death, he tried to be friendlier and she turned him down. My guess is he put Sansa Stark in there as a warning. If he wants to score points with the grieving mother, he has a better chance letting her protector and avenger live. Hence why you weren't dragged back for summary execution,"

"Jaime," Beric warned, "That's enough for now," he grasped Brienne's shoulder, "I will talk to her once we are back in the Stormlands,"

Jaime nodded, not once taking his eyes off Brienne's face.

"See that you do," he ordered, giving Brienne one final handshake. The press of his grip and warmth of his breath lingered on Brienne even as the train sped away.

She arrived back to the Stormlands and received a hero's welcome.

"The Districts love you," Beric told her, "The Crownlands and Petyr Baelish may not be your biggest fans, but the Districts adore you,"

"That's bad, isn't it?" Brienne guessed.

Beric gave her an enigmatic smile.

"That depends on how you look at it,"

 

#

Brienne spent her days at sea. Swimming and hauling in nets of fish, handing her bounty out to the poorer of her island. The first parcel day came and went, the bounty of the Capitol along with it. That was one of the few highlights, the smiles on their faces that were significantly rounder than before. Another highlight, surpsingly enough, was Jaime Lannister. He phoned Beric and Barristan every day and always insisted she be put on so he could have a word with her. Despite herself, she found herself smiling as he told her ridiculous stories, mocking the people he had met in plenty in King's Landing. He told her of their ridiculous costumes, the hostess whose skin had been striped purple and the cabaret singer who dressed himself entirely in cheese slices. He imitated their accents and suggested even more extravagant fashions for them, not stopping at tuxedos made of ham and stilettoes with giant springs in the heels. In their last phone call before her Victory Tour, he wished her luck.

"We will see each other soon," he promised, "And speak properly then,"

And despite the ominous note in his voice, Brienne found herself looking forward to it. It was that promise which kept her going through endless sessions with her stylists and parties looking into the eyes of the Districts as she waxed on about the graciousness of the King and King's Landing. And then at last she saw him, waiting for her in the Red Keep's ballroom. Her gown was not quite the dreaded fairy wings and sparkly wand, but it still did all it could to rob Brienne of her victory. A diaphanous silver blue lace gown that flowed like water over her, with her nipples quite on display and ridiculous heels she tottered and slipped on, she felt as raw and vulnerable as her day in the Remake Centre.

"Pretty frock," Jaime smiled, "And nice heels. But you will have to forgive me if I don't ask you to dance,"

"Probably wise," Brienne agreed, doing all she could to make herself invisible. No such luck for the Westeros's newest Victor. Brienne found herself being stolen off for dances with countless Crownlanders who fawned and flattered and left Brienne feeling dirties by their touch. But at the end of each dance Jaime was by her side, their to give her a smile or share a joke and he was seeing her though. Even so, the promised talk did not come and Brienne found herself on edge waiting to finally be filled in on all those private phone calls between himself and her mentors, all those cryptic comments every time they spoke. She did not expect clarification at the ball, not in the middle of the Red Keep, but soon. Soon, she hoped.

Clarification came to her that night. She found herself being dragged from her bed by ten masked guards.

"What is going on?" she demanded, "What is happening?"

"Don't struggle and come calmly, " one of the guards ordered.

She wrenched her arms from their grip and thrust her fist into one of their noses.

"Stop fighting," the tallest one; even larger than Brienne, grunted, but Brienne had no intention of bottling up her fight. She had tried to avoid the fight before, and that worked out so well. Now she was going to fight every step of the way.

"Stick her," one of them ordered, and the next thing Brienne knew was a needle being pressed into her skin and an instant wave if weariness rampaged through her.

"Gods she's heavy," one of them cursed as they dragged her through the endless corridor. Their grip cut painfully into her skin, squeezing under her armpits. Through half open eyelids Brienne glimpsed limp bodies propped up against the wall.

"Pick up your pace, we need to get her onto to the craft the King has his men after her," was the last thing Brienne heard until sleep overwhelmed her. 

 

#

"Brienne? Brienne?"

Brienne blinked herself awake, confusion at finding herself on a hospital bed rippling beneath layers of drowsiness.

"Why did you knock her out?"

Brienne's ears pricked up at the voice. Jaime?

"Bitch wouldn't stop fighting and we had to get her out of there," the voice of the guard she had punched said in a thick voice, "And the cow broke my nose. Dondarrion, how long until we get there?"

"Half an hour, and no sign of Capitol ships. We got a good head start. We should reach base without a problem,"

"And where is the base," Brienne demanded, swinging herself up wit far too much haste and pressing herself against the cool metal wall for steadiness.

"You're awake," Jaime said, hastening over and helping her sit up.

"Obviously she is," Sandor Clegane glared at her, bandages on her nose.

"Leave her be Sandor," Jaime ordered, "And forget about your nose. You were already ugly,"

Brienne had no time for their sniping. "Where is the base?" she repeated, "And while we are at it, what is the base for?"

"Alright," Beric nodded, "Tell her,"

"The base," Jaime told her, "is in Castle Black, and what it is base for, is the Rebellion,"

Brienne blinked. "Rebellion?" she repeated, "The Rebellion is dead,"

"Not quite," Jaime nodded proudly, "The Rebellion lives. In us. And, if you are the brave woman I think you are, it will live on in you,"

Brienne's gaze flickered from Jaime to Beric to Sandor Clegane. They all watched her, waiting for her response, Jaime's hand warm on her back.

"Why me?"

"Because you, my courageous friend who would rather give up their life than kill an innocent," Jaime smiled "Are exactly what we need,"

 

#

Returning to the Capitol after all these years was like a dream. She had been waiting for this day for so long, preparing herself, making plans and building alliances. And now it was all coming to fruition. She sat, tense and silent in the hover craft with Jaime by her side, watching the horizon for that first glimpse of the Red Keep.

"Any regrets?" Jaime asked her, checking his gun for the tenth time.

"No," Brienne said stiffly, "I know why it needs to be done. And why it needs to be done by me. As Sandor says, if I am their symbol I should be seen as being the one to take retribution,"

"That's not quite the same thing," Jaime pointed out.

"Worse things have been done for the Rebellion," Brienne insisted, "Taking down the King should be nothing in comparison. It is time for justice to be done, and soon it will, thank the Seven,"

"I don't know why the Seven should get any thanks," Jaime grumbled, "Especially as his Grace claimed the Games were in honour of them," he frowned pensively, mulling it over, "It's all very tidy. Numbers wise. Seven Gods, seven boys and seven girls, we had seven years of rebellion...do you think they did that on purpose? The Rebels I mean?"

"I don't doubt it,"

 

#

"What madness is this?" his Grace, King Petyr Baelish, First of his name demanded as he found himself being awoken in his bed by two hooded intruders, "Where are my guards?"

"Gone," a gruff voice replied, "No one is coming to help you now,"

"What sort of game are you playing?" Baelish hissed, drawing himself up to full height and hoping the darkness of his opulent chambers would hide his fears.

"No game," a second voice; a woman's, told him roughly, "There will be no more games. We aren't your chess pieces anymore, Baelish. We never were. Our lives matter, the lives of the dead matter, _my_ life matters,"

Baelish's lips curled in distaste. "Brienne Tarth," he spat, "You always were a thorn in my side,"

"And now she shall put a bullet in your head," Jaime Lannister said pleasantly, "Brienne, set the camera up, it is time for his Grace's final address,"

"Please," Baelish begged as Jaime Lannister shoved him to the white carpeted ground, "I am begging you,"

"Are you?" Jaime hissed, "And how many children did you send begging to their graves?"

"It's time," Brienne announced, pulling out her gun, "Petyr Baelish, I charge you with murder and crimes against the Realm. In the name of the Seven Kingdoms, and every child whose blood is on your hands, I do sentence you to die,"

"It's ironic," Jaime mused as Petyr whimpered in his grip, "That as this man's life is worthless, so without value, he would have been perfect for the Hunger Games. Truly, who will miss him? What great deeds will he leave in his wake? What a shame that it is game over,"

And with the squeezing of a finger, Petyr Baelish's tiny frame lay dead on the ground.

Brienne's knees buckled but she kept herself upright, the shot reverberating up and down her arm. Jaime saw her shiver but knew better than to help her stand. Instead he waited for her to put her gun away and dismantle the camera, their broadcast finished and already causing chaos across the realm. They left the limp body on the floor and walked mindlessly into the deserted corridor, where Brienne stopped and sunk against the wall.

"Come on," he said, "We need to recon with the others in the Throne Room,"

Brienne nodded. "Just give me a minute," she said, turning to rest her head against the window. Jaime came to join her, lightly running his and down her back. He laughed.

"Look Brienne," he whispered, "The sun is coming up,"

Brienne shared in Jaime's laughter. "Well," she scoffed, looking over the lilac sky that was streaked with pink and gold and purple. "That's fitting,"

Jaime looked at the crack of yellow light, looked back at Brienne, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "It really is," he agreed, "It really is,"


End file.
